


Various Unfinished or Abandoned WIPs

by Chi-chi-chimaera (gestalt1)



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Fight Club (1999), Inception (2010), Rock 'N' Rolla, White Collar, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gestalt1/pseuds/Chi-chi-chimaera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically any reasonably long but now abandoned fanfic that I haven't posted here at any point. <br/>Includes: <br/>X-Men FC post-film fic<br/>Batman/Fight Club crossover<br/>White Collar/Inception crossover<br/>Rock 'N' Rolla Powers AU snippits</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Prompt:” There's a lot of prompts about Charles deciding to join Erik and Erik deciding to join Charles. However, one of the coolest things about those two is that they actually understand that they are different and have different agendas, and manage to respect that... sort of. They got this very well at the ending of the movie._  
Since I want a happy-end for those two before they are both eighty and bitter, I have a different idea - I want to see them having to solve some problem together (I think something like that happened in every version of the X-Men timeline), and if they could work out some differences, and stop persuading one another to change the tactics and ideals, they can actually form a single organisation with two wings. There'd still be the Brotherhood, for those, who are more suitable for it (like Mystique) and for military operations, and there is the X-Men, where those who need an absolutely different approach go, where research is carried out and so forth.  
That could work rather soon after the movie events - after all, the governments are not pleased with the mutants. Erik would be able to help Charles, since he's much more adapted to actual fighting - it seems he spent 16 years training for that. Charles is much better at educating others and helping them resolve their issues (not everyone gets better by being pushed off the cliff...), and they both eventually understand that to survive they have to join forces while still remaining what they are, even if they don't always understand each other's ideas or approve of them.  
Slash is not exactly necessary, but I certainly don't mind.” 

 

**True Power is the Balance between Rage and Serenity**

 

Above him the cloudless blue sky. Below him sand, hot from the sun, sticking itchy to his skin where he had fallen. In his ears, the soft susurrus of the waves on the shore. And pain. Pain beyond anything he had ever felt before. It is a sunburst in his spine, distracting him from the fact that everything below it is numb. He cannot feel his legs. He cannot... he stares up, looking past Moira’s face, her hands cradling him, and selfishly wishes it was still Erik. That he had not abandoned him here on the beach. That he himself hadn’t been so foolish as to say _‘They were only following orders’_. 

He tells his toes to move in his boots, but he has no idea if they obey him. He suspects not. The students, the children, gather round him, just the three of them left now. Their minds are wide open, projecting their fear, their uncertainty. Their sense of betrayal. Angel had left them before, and now both Erik and Raven are gone too. Abandoned them to join mutants who had stood by and watched as Shaw killed Darwin in front of their very eyes. For all his hopes, his words of optimism and promises of a better future, Charles has failed them. 

“We’ve got to get you to a hospital,” Moira says, starting to lift him up. He would like to scream, but only a gasp escapes his lips. He is too weak to do more. 

“Don’t move him,” Hank snaps, his voice still a little unfamiliar with the change, deeper and fiercer, though his mind is the same as ever. Charles can take comfort in that at least.

“I won’t... I can’t...” he says, dread sitting cold and heavy in his heart. He had waited this long, wanting to spare Erik the truth. He had given him enough guilt already to stop him from hurting Moira, when in truth he can blame neither of them. Just an accident. A stupid, foolish accident. He should feel bitter, and perhaps he will when it has had a chance to sink in, but for now... He is too tired. “I can’t feel my legs.”

Saying it makes it real. Seeing it reflected back at him from four minds, shock and horror and the bitter taste of pity, and he repeats himself, as though that will somehow make it better. As though it will somehow make it untrue. 

Perhaps if they could get him to a hospital something could be done. Perhaps he can nurse some slight ember of hope that this does not mean what he fears. But how can they? They are trapped here, the jet in pieces, no roads for miles. Will they carry him? He thinks Hank could do it, but if just that slight movement before had caused him so much pain, what would that be like? He doesn’t think he could survive it.

A crack fills the air nearby. A new mind arrives beside them, familiar only in passing. Panicked shouts come from the others, but he instead feels a wave of relief. It is one of Shaw’s mutants, now Erik’s. The teleporter, who plays up his demonic appearance because it amuses him to see fear on the faces of his enemies. Erik must have sent him. Erik has not abandoned him here, not truly. 

“Take my hand,” the mutant says to Moira, impatient. “I will take you to a hospital.”

Charles can feel that they do not want to trust him. A quick brush over the surface of his mind shows that he is telling the truth, and he nods, and speaks, trying to project his ever weaker voice. “Do it.”

Moira hesitates, but her pale skin touches red-as-blood, and the world changes around them. It is violent, but the landing is soft, and the sharp clean scent of disinfectant fills the air. 

Charles lets himself relax, lets go of his forceful hold on consciousness. Lets the pain wash him away, into dark sleep. He is so very tired. 

\----

_You will not walk again._ He had already suspected, probably already known deep down that this was the truth, but it hurts no less when the doctors tell him. It’s a weight on his heart that could sink him if he let it. He has time to think on it, to turn the knowledge over in his mind like broken glass, as if hoping to wear jagged edges down smooth. The absence below his waist is a constant reminder of what he has lost. He will get through this; he makes it a promise to himself, ignoring how many of his promises he has already broken. Not this one. He will adapt and survive. 

Two weeks they keep him, letting the wound heal, letting him settle in to his new reality. Perhaps he _is_ bitter, he realises as the long, dull days drift on, wondering what Erik is doing out there. Perhaps he _is_ angry, if he would let himself feel it. He has never before imagined how hard this could be, to be so helpless, to be _crippled_. A word poisonous in its truth. A name, an identity, that will be the first thing others see of him. The _only_ thing they see of him, in some cases. He tries to avoid the minds of the doctors and the nurses as they come and go, so heavy with pity that he cannot endure it. 

Finally they decide he is ready to leave his bed. They prescribe him physical therapy, someone to come and teach him how to manoeuvre himself in and out of the wheelchair, in and out of bed, to do tasks so basic he has never given them a moment’s thought before. Moira is there to help him, but she is trying to avoid the eye of the CIA, those men who ordered her death along with theirs, so she cannot stay for long. Hank and Sean and Alex are back at the mansion. Waiting. He focuses on them as a goal. He tells himself if he can just get back to them, things will return to the way they were. He knows this is a lie, but it is all he has. 

He is less than he once was. Both physically, and because of the empty space by his side, in his mind. The man missing. The man who, he thinks, broke the bargain – now proven so fragile – they had with one another. Or perhaps it was Charles himself who broke it. He had thought they both wanted what was best for mutant-kind, but now he wonders if he ever really knew Erik at all. If all he wanted was for humans to die. For their extinction, laying the path clear. He hopes he is wrong. He hopes this is just his loss talking.

He does not want to fight his friend. He fears one day he may have to.

\----

It is a month since the beach when he makes it back to the mansion. Back home. He has found... some measure of calm, of acceptance. He has always thought of himself as a man who can cope with adversity, but in truth, he has never experienced adversity before. What are the hardships of a young and rich man’s life, compared to this, he thinks, remembering Erik’s words with their well-hidden sting. There had been his step-father and step-brother, and that _had_ been hard, but he had always had the hope of getting away, of knowing that when he was older he would be able to leave and have them become the ghosts of his past, forgotten and unmentioned. _This_ cannot be forgotten. _This_ cannot be escaped. 

Moira is helpful, but she is not Erik, and she has her own concerns. Soon she will be called back to her old job, and they may not be – will not be – pleasant in their interrogation if they believe she has something, anything to hide. The choice he makes is a necessary one, but he wonders if he would have been so quick to do it before he saw the truth of what those men were willing to do. 

His touch in her mind is subtle but deep, pushing memories away and locking them behind walls so strong he is the only one that could hope to break them. It does not take long. He leaves her with a few things, good things to comfort her, the bright sunlight of summer as their small family trained, the cool breeze through the trees in the garden on a hot day, his lips against hers, letting her believe it meant more than it did. He likes her, but he does not love her. 

Perhaps he could have, if she had not tried to shoot Erik. It is not that he blames her for the state he’s in, but he would not have had his friend hurt. Although Erik might have been wrong in retaliating, in sending those missiles back to their point of origin, he simply cannot imagine using lethal force against him. He could not read him, but now he has set the bitterness of the hospital aside, he would like to think he knows him well enough to say that it was meant in self-defence. Out of proportion and with consequences he does not like to think about, but in Erik’s mind, justified. 

Perhaps he has convinced himself that the good he saw in Erik cannot have been extinguished, that maybe they _did_ want the same things. Perhaps this is denial. Perhaps he is being naive. But he has always been the optimist, so full of hope. What he feels towards Erik keeps changing. Anger and betrayal shading into forgiveness. It may be a long time before he sees him again. He wants to think of him fondly in the meantime.

He sends Moira home with a light shove against her mind. She will not remember their hiding place. For now, they are safe. Safe to recover, safe to plan, and to do... what? Surely at least in part it will depend on what Erik chooses. 

But for now he is heart-hurt and soul-weary. _Adapt_ , he tells himself. _Survive_. He still has people who need him.

\----

Hank tells him, the day after he has settled in, that Erik has not stayed his hand during his absence. The diamond-hard woman, both in form and mind, has been taken from her prison. Charles wonders what his friend sees in her. She was like ice, he remembers, a winter pool placid and still, near unreadable. No empathy, no care for the world, for anything or anyone other than herself. He worries that Erik has taken a viper to him, that she will turn and sink fangs dripping poison into his mind. He hopes he keeps the helmet near, even if it means he cannot reach out and touch that familiar self, dark and deep, metal walls holding secrets like a puzzle box. 

Hank is of an age with the other boys, but something in him has changed with his skin, making him bolder. He has taken the role of leadership while Charles has recovered, and Charles is not entirely sure he is ready – or indeed, willing – to take it back. He will have to, if he wants to return to his plan, but... perhaps not yet. 

Hank has been working, seeming to bury himself in the cold comfort of science. His blueprints for a new, updated jet are already finished, merely waiting for the funding to spring from page to reality. Cerebro is being recovered from memory, the plans lost in Shaw’s attack at the CIA. Sean spends a great deal of his time in the air, flying high enough to be taken for a bird, if there is anyone around to see. Alex destroys things. Charles can feel it is cathartic to him, and he continues to improve. Soon he will not need the help of Hank’s device on his chest. 

With only the four of them the mansion feels very empty. Charles withdraws into himself, feeling more alone than ever. He still supervises the others’ training sessions, but they are getting along well without him, with their own practise, and he can feel the effort it takes them to try not to treat him any differently. They do not need him anymore. What kind of mentor is he, to have led them so wrong? He doesn’t even have his position in the CIA to protect them with. 

It is a relief when Hank finally comes to him with the news that he has finished rebuilding Cerebro. At last, there is something he can do. There are others out there who he _can_ help, who will be lost, and alone, and more scared than ever. So far there has been nothing concrete in the news about that day on the beach, but it can only be a matter of time. Then the world will know about them, and mutants will have even more reason to hide. _And perhaps then Erik will act_. A constant worry at the back of his mind.

The new Cerebro is much like the old one, even if Hank had been unable to get some of the materials that were for the government only. He had managed to make do. The familiarity is nearly too much. He feels as though he should be able to turn around and see Erik standing behind him, smiling, supporting him. He does not give in to the urge. The helmet settles easily onto his head. He prepares himself.

His mind opens like a flower spreading its petals in the sun. He is aware of so much, so many minds, little lives like firefly sparks, most pale but now and then springing into bright colour, layered with the feeling, the knowledge of kin. Of power, strange and new, just under the surface. The bright new future of the world, full of potential, if only humanity could see it. If only they could learn to work together...

He does not know how long he spends swimming through the sea of other minds. If he had the strength to keep the connection he might never leave, for it is truly beautiful. To feel the tides of emotions, thoughts, opinions, personalities each individual and a part of something more. To know the good and the evil in the hearts of man. 

When he comes out of the trance, Hank is waiting for him, bearing a long list of co-ordinates plucked from his head as he passed them by. “The jet isn’t ready yet,” he says, the rough edge of a cat’s purr threaded through his voice. Apology is a flash of green-yellow in his mind, like sunlight through new leaves. 

“I don’t mind taking the journey alone, my friend.” He smiles, covering the stab of pain, quick and bitter. Alone. He knows each mile will fill with memories, once sweet, overlaid with the sour gloss of sorrow like bile. Erik. Erik. Erik. If he could find some way to lock these thoughts away... but no. Even through the hurt, those six months from April to October remain some of the best he has ever had.   
He cannot let himself become fixated upon the past. He must think of the future, of finding new mutants to fill the empty halls. 

He does not fool himself to imagine any of them will replace what he has lost.

\----

He takes buses, trains and planes across America, stays in cheap motels with neon signs that fitz and splutter – Erik chiding him; _you shouldn’t waste your money Charles, no matter how much of it you have_ – the walls imbued with the echoes of a hundred memories from travellers past; arguments in iris-purple splintered like shale, the animal scent of sex, lust red-and-white, love golden like fine silk, warm and fierce as fire. Weariness and depression grey as storm-clouds. He learned long ago how to shield his mind whilst sleeping; still, he thinks borrowed dreams might be more pleasant than his own.

Not everyone he calls upon meets his advances with acceptance. Without Erik, every rejection, every fear-darkened turning away bites deeper. That is not to say that he does not have successes. He finds a young girl from Africa named Ororo, not yet thirteen and just arrived in America with people not her parents, men who wish nothing good for her. With a brush of his power they forget they ever saw her, and he makes an offer of safety and protection that is eagerly accepted. Even untrained Ororo can call up the storm, summon wind and lightning. She tells him she had been running wild on the streets of Cairo before those men picked her up, her family long gone, their fate obscured in the mists of memory. 

When he takes her home she slots into their little family like a lost piece of a jigsaw puzzle, as yet too incomplete for the final picture to be made out. It is strange having one so young to take care of. Charles begins to think of more human lessons, of becoming a school for more than just their powers. He will need to find teachers if they continue to expand, but the idea of it is pleasant, a warm dream of hope in his mind. A sense of purpose to latch on too.

While all three of the boys treat Ororo like a little sister, she loves Hank most thoroughly, treating him like a massive furry teddy bear. Apart from the times when she cuddles up to him she is serious and quiet, watching everything around her with interest bright and sharp and cautious, fearful of it being smacked away, shut down, as it must have been so often in the past. Charles can tell she has never been in formal education before, but she is smart, and he knows she will do well here. All she needs is for someone to give her a chance.

Alex stops him in the hallway one afternoon soon after with a nervous request about his brother, a boy four years younger than him and just coming into the time when their shared genetics might awaken something strange and new within him. Alex has not seen Scott since before his time in jail, but he remembers him with the clear-cut clarity of glass, a young boy who was never told what his elder brother had done, who never knew why he had to leave. Charles does not need to feel the deep love in Alex’s heart, the fierce protectiveness to agree to help. It is only right that Alex should see his family again. It is more than Charles has.

Scott Summers is frightened and alone when they find him, his eyes stuck shut with duct tape glossy and ugly against his skin. His thoughts are crimson and black, fear piled on fear. He fears himself, fears his power, fears he has become a monster. Charles slips comfort into his mind, surface layer deep, a soft and soothing blanket of emotion. He skims memories out, of Scott’s family rejecting him as they had Alex, of their faces twisted ugly, leaving him to fend for himself. Memories of destruction, damage laid out in the blink of an eye. 

“I’m here to help you Scott,” he says, laying a hand on a trembling shoulder. “I know your brother, and he misses you very much.”

\----

Alex is overjoyed to see his younger brother again, and although Scott will not open his eyes, he recognises the voice clearly enough. Charles leaves them to their reunion, soaking some small measure of comfort from the emotions that swirl around them like fireworks; happiness sunflower yellow and summer-sky blue, joy the red burst of a ripe tomato. He does not wish to spoil it for them with the taste of his own loneliness, a sudden pang stronger than ever. 

He talks Scott’s powers over with Hank, who is as fascinated as he always is over something new and unexplored. His thoughts turn pale chalk blue and lab coat white as he talks of plasma charges and energy absorption, already caught up in his ideas. Postulating ways to channel it, block it, control it so that Scott can avoid hurting anyone. So he can see his brother again.

Charles wonders if Erik would call this hiding. If he would rather Scott live ‘mutant and proud’, seeing the world through a ruby glow of destruction if he did not prefer to remain blind. If, by now, he would have turned him into a weapon. He doesn’t know anymore. With every passing day, Erik grows further and further away from him. 

Charles cannot tell if he will ever get over him.

\----

Erik may have given his excuses to the others, but he does not fool himself. Emma Frost cannot, will not, ever replace Charles. She is in every way different to him, cold where he was warm, hard where he was soft, full of diamond-smiles instead of laughter as rain to sooth a man dying of thirst. 

(He was that man once. Now he makes do with hot blood, and licks the taste of iron from his lips.)

He had not thought loneliness could hurt so much. (Before, he never knew there was anything worth missing.) He takes the pain; familiar as his scars even if from a different source, and uses it as he has always done before. It is fuel for the machine, for the furnace that tempers brittle iron to solid steel, that makes the monster which, cockroach-like, is the only thing which can survive. He makes himself into the weapon, deadly as he has always been, to do what he knows must be done. 

(He thinks, in quieter moments, that he becomes this to shield Charles, that despite rejection he does this to protect his once-friend. So he and the boys can stay safe and hidden while the humans target a threat more clear, more obvious. _The best defense is offense_. So he will be bright as silver, flashy as magnesium set to burn.)

( _And burn he will_.)

\----

It is weeks before he hears what he has truly done to Charles. As Emma laughs about it over dinner the food turns to ashes in his mouth, the taste of dead things, a memory of char and stink floating on the breeze long ago, and it is all he can do not to kill her where she sits. 

(But however callous she is only the messenger, and his is the hand that dealt the blow.)

Instead he pins her to the table with the cutlery and bids her tell him all she knows. She has heard the diagnosis – ‘ _he will never walk again_ ’ – and she has heard that Charles is recruiting once more, seemingly undeterred and optimistic as ever for all that he has to wheel himself from place to place. Somehow that at least does not surprise him. Charles is stronger than he might at first appear.

(Yet this does nothing to stop the guilt like the slow slice of a knife through flesh burrowing through his stomach, into the heart he thought he did not have.)

Such a show of force and rage does not seem to faze Azazel or Riptide; he supposes they have seen such many times before. Shaw was a patient man when it suited him, but ever fond of discipline, the more unpleasant the better. Why else would Riptide be missing a tongue? As for Mystique (she is still ‘Raven’ too often in the privacy of his own head), after hearing such words about her still-beloved brother, she does not much mind.

It has been too long since that day on the beach for apologies. If he had been less afraid, felt less betrayed by Charles renouncing their bond, he might have asked Azazel to take him to visit in hospital. They could have spoken then, and he could have made amends. Now it is too late for words, and he must make this right in the only way he knows how, in the simple colours of blood. 

(He has hurt Charles beyond any rational forgiveness. The least he can do is forge a world in which no-one will ever lay a hand on him again.)

\----

The day Charles goes to visit a young girl named Jean Grey is the first day he sees Erik again. 

Jean Grey is nine years old, but in Cerebro’s light she burns like a second sun, red like the rose and her own crimson hair, full of potential that Charles cannot even begin to imagine. She is a telepath and a telekinetic, and he knows from his own experience that it is not an easy thing to have the press of other minds all around you, without the control to filter, to understand. He has always had issues with privacy. Small children are not built to understand what is right and what is wrong without someone to guide them. He is lucky he turned out as well as he did. 

For Jean, he hopes he may be such a guide. He considers the best way to approach the matter on the journey to the suburbs of New York, flicking through possibilities, arranging scenarios like shuffling cards. How will she feel, to know she is not alone? He remembers that day in his kitchen, so many years ago, then shies away from it. Thoughts of Raven are nearly as painful as those of Erik. 

The cab drops him off on the pavement outside the small suburban home, after some degree of difficulty unfolding the new lightweight wheelchair that Hank has built for him. He is thankful to have it, for the mobility it gives him, the ease of travelling which he could never have in the bulky, solid thing he left back in Westchester. He could not continue the work of finding these youngsters otherwise, and none of the others are yet experienced enough, or indeed convincing enough, to take the role instead.

He is wheeling himself up to the gate in the fence painted white as fresh sheets when he notices that he is not alone.

It strikes him with all the power of a months-past bullet, and he can smell the tang of the sea, the ghost echo of pain and the scratch of sand. _Erik_. It is a thought broadcast like a drawn out breath, and it goes nowhere. Wearing that metal over his head like a gladiator of old, he is blank to him, a body which moves and speaks but reads cold and dark and dead as a corpse. Erik turns to look at him.

“I never took you for a man taken with theatricality.” It is the first thing that comes to his mind, but it is true; the new paint in purple-red gaudy as the circus, the small design at the brow like a beetle’s horns, the cape dark as old blood folded up and draped over one arm. His other clothes at least are more typical; black, well-fitted, a slightly military cut. 

He thinks there is a slight twitch of Erik’s lips at his words, a certain degree of fondness not yet lost, but with that helmet blanketing his thoughts as surely as diamond, as mirrors, he cannot tell. His eyes are mostly hidden by shadow and distance, but he stands stiff, tense in a way Charles has rarely seen. He imagines that perhaps he too knows the touch of pain in this moment, a broken bone not yet set.

“I have found it to have its uses.” His voice is as warm and dark as Charles remembers. Like chocolate, melting in a mouth’s heat, though such a treat had always been something Erik had shied away from in their carefully stocked cupboards. Bad memories. He did not need to dip into his head to see that much. 

“Were you going to wear that to visit Jean?” Charles asks him, pushing away emotions and remembered scenes tinged with the warmth of nostalgia and the bitterness of a thing lost too soon. He fancies he manages to sound casual enough despite it. “I suppose she might rather like it, but I doubt her parents would see it the same way.”

“I did not come here to speak to humans,” Erik tells him, his eyes narrowing beneath sharp shadows of metal. It should not hurt as much as it does, but he has always known of his once-friend’s hate, chained deep, too deep to be drawn out like poison from a wound at a single death. It finds a new focus.

“I take it we are both here for the same thing?” The words come out tired, and he feels it, weary already of this wall between them, hard and calcified, growing thicker with each moment apart. He wishes... he wishes, and lets it go. It is done, and thinking on ways he might have changed it is like clutching shards of glass, leaving only pain and the smear of blood like ink. 

Erik does not answer this question. It is obvious enough. His hands clench into fists, but no metal crumples. Charles is thankful for this at least. He may not wish to admit it, but he needs this chair, and he does not like to think of the humiliation Erik could so easily push on him with casual fingers. 

“I should have come to see you sooner,” Erik says, after long moments. There is a raw edge to his voice. “I should have... I need to apologise. For what I did; for what I’ve done to you.”

“I forgive you.” It is easier than he thought to say, and a relief besides. After a month at the hospital and three weeks since his discharge he has had time to think it over and let go of any blame he had once held. Perhaps he does this too easily, but it is and has always been his nature. 

It is not Erik’s nature, and he does not take it so easily. He is still blank in mind’s sight, but Charles does not need that to see the reaction, the anger turned outwards and inwards both. “How can you? How can you brush it aside so easily? After what I’ve done to you...”

“An accident,” Charles says, interrupting him. He will not let Erik continue to blame himself for this. “A stray bullet, nothing more.”

“No.” A negative as rough and grainy as the sand back on the beach. “I could have ripped the gun from her hands, stopped the bullets instead of deflecting them... if I had only _thought_.”

“But it is done, and nothing either of us can say will change that,” Charles says, trying to be gentle, to sooth with words instead of thought which comes so much more naturally. He fears another miss-step; sometimes he can be so very blind to his own words, their impact a ricochet as unintended and damaging as that bullet. He smiles, hoping to lighten the mood. “Don’t you think it’s a bit presumptuous to heap all this guilt onto yourself when I’ve told you you’re forgiven? If I’ve the right to put it there, I’ve at least the right to demand it taken away.”

Erik stares at him, long, slow, a gaze that burns inscrutable. “Sometimes I wonder how we ever got along so well,” he says, quiet enough that Charles cannot be sure he meant to voice it at all. “We are such very different people.” It is resigned; Charles thinks the sorrow it summons anew may very well drown him. It is dark and heavy, and he has come to believe he has only begun to plumb its depths.

“I suppose we shall go and have a chat with Miss Grey together?” he asks finally. He thinks the pain will be worth it merely for the company, though his enjoyment of it is much diminished by that ever-present helmet. 

“Of course, old friend,” Erik replies, a smile unhappy and full of sharp shark-teeth. Charles does not let even the faintest seed of hope flower. He cannot expose himself to the risk, even if reconciliation were a possibility. He cannot face such disappointment again, and yet... He cannot promise himself he will not do so. For Erik, he is ever weak, and that is the simple truth of it.

The flag of truce is one thing, but any more than that... As he said at their parting, they have never wanted the same things. He is a naive and optimistic fool, as Erik has branded him, and even he knows better than that, but knowing and feeling are two very different things.

\---- 

Jean comes home with him in the end, Erik seeming to acknowledge that his ‘Brotherhood’, as he has taken to calling it, may not be the best place for a young girl to grow up, no matter how powerful. And she is powerful. Charles has looked into the depths of her and seen what burns there, seen the display of her abilities in the fire of her mind touching his, in the casual strength lifting everything within their view with no more effort than picking up a toy. 

 

_Charles goes on recruitment missions. Trying to fit in some mutants who are more like Raven. Charles wishes he could send them to Erik, but fears what that might mean._

_His mistrust of Emma which means he must keep the helmet on when he wishes he could talk to Charles._

_Erik’s new goal. The brotherhood discover the government’s plans to deal with the mutant threat after the close call at Cuba._

_The two teams band together to fight the Sentinels. Charles admits that maybe Erik was right. Erik is tired of violence and guilty about Charles. He sees the value in what Charles is doing._


	2. Forgers Flock Together/Can't Con A Con Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty old, and set at some point on the timeline before Kate's death.

“You’re in early,” Peter says, almost springing on him as he comes through the door that morning. “I guess you’ve heard the news.” 

Neal blinks. Actually he was hoping no-one would be here yet, so he could take the chance to snoop around Peter’s office. Not, he should hasten to add, that he _really_ thinks Peter would hold Kate captive to use against him. It’s not his style. Peter is a pretty straightforward kind of guy, right up until the moment he surprises you and smacks a pair of cuffs on, but he’s never been devious or underhand. But Neal has been wrong about people before. It wouldn’t be nice, being let down by Peter, but he’s a Fed, and as any thief knows, Feds don’t make good best friends. 

“Of course,” he says, bluffing. 

“Come on up and I’ll fill you in on the details.” Peter grins, looking like a kid with a shiny new toy. Something special then. “You’re going to like this.”

Neal raises his eyebrows. Okay, he’s interested. When Peter’s acting like this, it usually means someone somewhere is being impressive. It’s been all too easy lately, dull insurance scams and bond forgeries. No challenges, no chases, no skill. A lot of amateurs. But not this time. 

“So what are we dealing with?” he asks, following him up to his office, throwing his suit jacket over the back of his chair and setting his fedora down on the table. Peter perches on the edge of it next to him. 

“Well you know there was a break-in at the Escher Exhibition at the Met two nights ago, but as far as the papers have heard, nothing was taken. At least, that’s what everyone thought, until some enterprising art historian took a closer look at some of the pieces.” 

Wow, Neal thinks, he really _must_ be out of it, because he hadn’t even heard about _any_ of this. That’s practically criminal coming from him. Still... “Let me guess. They were forgeries.”  
Peter points a finger at him. “Exactly.”

“Must be good work,” Neal says, impressed. Escher’s not someone _he_ would have chosen to forge, but maybe the guy’s a fan. “Are we going to go down and take a look?” 

“One better. After they called us they closed the exhibition down, and I managed to persuade the curator to let us bring the fakes back here. You can take a look without having to leave the building.” He takes a look at Neal’s expression and laughs. “You’re practically salivating right now aren’t you.”

“Hey, don’t judge!” Neal holds up his hands. “It’s been a while since I got to see some real talent.” 

“Well don’t let me get in your way.” Peter holds the door open for him. “We’ve got them set up in the conference room. Come on.” Neal doesn’t need telling twice. 

There are a full ten forgeries waiting for him propped up against the walls, still covered in bubble-wrap from the journey over. This guy is ambitious, or maybe just a little bit arrogant. It’s a quality Neal can sometimes admire, if it comes with the balls to pull it off. But this guy is an unknown. 

Neal puts one of the pieces on the conference table to get a closer look, setting the packaging aside carefully. It’s good. It’s _really_ good. Whoever spotted this down at the Met ought to get some kind of promotion because they certainly know their stuff. Well, either that or they’ve done a little faking of their own from time to time, in order to know what to look for. The work is strong and bold, no hesitations. Plenty of confidence. No hidden signature that he can see though, and it isn’t a style he recognises. 

“Did the security cameras catch anything?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” Peter says, shaking his head. “What, you thought it was going to be that easy?” He puts a hand on the back of Neal’s chair so he can bend over his shoulder and examine it for himself. “Anything?” he asks.

“I don’t know the guy, sorry. But I can put the word out, ask around. He’ll sit tight until some of the heat’s died down before trying to fence them; he’s not leaving town anytime soon. I‘m pretty sure he doesn’t already have a buyer; I mean, who pays someone to steal ten Eschers?” 

Peter sighs. “You know, this would all be a lot easier if he’d left us something to go on. A calling card maybe.”

“And I want the Mona Lisa to hang on June’s wall, that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen,” Neal says with a laugh. “I thought you liked the smart ones.”

“I like _you_.” 

“Aw, I’m special.” It’s true though. Three years playing cat and mouse; even as driven a man as Peter Burke wouldn’t go that far for any old white collar criminal. Quite what it really meant though, Neal hadn’t yet worked out. It just makes it all the harder to believe Peter could have anything to do with what’s happened to Kate.

“Just you keep telling yourself that,” Peter says, sending a slight shiver down Neal’s back at the unintended double meaning. But it’s coincidence, that’s all. “Keep your ear to the ground. I’ll have the team check the Met over again, but I don’t think we’re going to find anything there. We’re counting on you to get us a lead on this one.”

“I’ll do my best,” Neal says, giving him one of his finest smiles. He sweeps a hand over the surface of the Escher. Something tells him this case isn’t going to be an easy one. 

\----

“Eames,” Neal tells Peter the next day at lunchtime, Italian roast coffee and bagels on June’s roof. The day is good for it, bright sun, blue skies, and Mozzie has come through for him again. Peter raises his eyebrows.

“Eames? Isn’t that some kind of furniture?”

“Is that a hint of culture I detect?”

“Don’t be funny with me Caffrey,” Peter says, waving a bagel at him, but of course he’s smiling. “Who is Eames?”

“No-one knows much about him,” Neal says. “He’s a British forger, has done all kinds of work in Europe, though not very regularly. Art can’t be his only line of work. Anyway, the rumours are that he came to America because Interpol were getting a bit too close, and he’s looking to make a quick buck so he can go to ground ‘til things die down a bit.”

Peter leans back in his chair, deep in thought. Neal can see why he’d be less than enthusiastic, considering their last encounter with Interpol. Neither agency will be very pleased with the other right now, which isn’t an atmosphere likely to produce co-operation. 

“Will you hear about it when he starts looking for a buyer?” he says eventually.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Hopefully we’ll be able to get our hands on his file before then, which will give some of the aliases he might be using. We can cross-reference with the motels and hotels, maybe even check some of the recent rentals,” Peter says. “Cruz is rechecking the tapes and Jones is interviewing the staff of the Escher exhibit, but the chances that we’ll get a lead are pretty slim. We don’t even know what this guy looks like, unless Interpol happen to have some pictures, and they feel like being helpful.”

Neal makes sympathetic noises. “Do you know how he made the swap?” he asks. “Blind spots, hacking the camera feed...?” 

“Their security was very insistent they could work it out without our help.” 

“Yeah?” Neal says. “How’s that going?”

“How’d you think?” Peter says with a grin. “I figure we let them get their wounded pride out of their systems, then you can and I can go down there and you can walk me through how _you_ would have done it.”

“Sounds fun.” Of course it will be, it’s the Met after all. And it’s not like he hasn’t taken the chance to scope out a few possible ways in there already, even if he has no intention of actually using any of them. It’s second nature, how could he not? After he shows them where the holes are, he will have to rework them a little, but that’s half the fun. The possibility. Knowing he could, if he wanted to. 

“Just keep your hands to yourself while we’re there,” Peter says, with a hint of steel behind it. “I’ll be watching you.”

“Peter! Don’t you trust me?” Neal says, with his best charmingly cheeky grin. “I’m a good boy now, remember.” 

Peter gives him a sceptical eyebrow, but it’s all in good fun this dance, just extending what they were doing all along those three years of the chase, back and forth between them. A little flirtatious, perhaps, if Peter didn’t have a wife to go home to, and Neal would never mess up what they have. 

So he’s a little jealous. It’s just been too long since he last saw Kate. Anyone would feel lonely.

\----

“Moz, tell me you’ve got something on this guy,” Neal says plaintively, giving his friend his best puppy-dog eyes. So far leads from the FBI end of things have been thin on the ground, and that’s putting it mildly. He actually really wants to catch this guy, if only so he can meet the man behind such good work as those Eschers. 

“I’ve been doing some digging, like you asked,” Mozzie says, shuffling his chair a little closer to the table and folding his hands in front of him. “He’s very slippery, your Mister Eames. Smart. Reminds me of you, actually. Except he’s mid-thirties, of course. Anyway. He’s careful, but he still has a routine.” He slides a glossy photograph across to Neal. 

“Underground poker games,” Neal says, his eyes widening ever so slightly. This is perfect. This is their in. 

“He likes to gamble,” Mozzie says with a shrug. “He might have only just got here, but he’s already well connected. These games are all invitation only.”

Neal smiles. “You think I can’t forge an invitation?” 

“ _Verbal_ invitation,” Mozzie corrects him. “There’s a password. It changes with each game. And no, I can’t get you in. It was hard enough getting that.” He pokes at the picture, leaving a slight grease-mark of a smeared fingerprint, then frowns, and wipes it off with the corner of his pullover. 

“The FBI can’t get decent prints off a little smudge like that,” Neal says.

“That’s what you think.” 

Neal picks the now clean photograph up, studying the man it shows. Slightly shorter than average, heavy set – he must work out – expensive clothes, short hair and stubble, a gangster with a con-man’s smile, full lips caught in a cocky grin. Interesting. 

He probably cheats at poker too. This could be the most fun he’ll have in months. 

\----

The surveillance van is outside the club, parked several streets away. The anklet is off, of course, but Neal is still tethered by the new watch he’s been given. Almost a twin for the one he had during the last case, and another high-stakes game to wear it to. They had a hell of a time getting the password for tonight, but in the end Jones and Cruz had cornered one of the otherwise clean businessmen who had been seen at the last game. It hadn’t taken much persuasion to get it out of him once they flashed their badges and threatened him with arrest. 

Once inside, and after pushing through the heaving crowds here for the DJ and the dance-floor, Neal murmurs the phrase into the bouncer’s ear and is let through to the back rooms. They are a fair size, and he has to scan several tables before he spots his mark. Fortuitously, there is space at the table. He strolls across casually.

“What’s the buy-in?” Neal asks as he slides into the empty chair next to Eames, flashing a smile to the rest of the players round the table. 

“$7000,” the dealer says, in the middle of shuffling the deck, cards flicking from one hand to the other with practised ease. “Cash, cheque or card.” Neal slides the matt black card the FBI gave him earlier across the table, where it disappears inside the man’s top pocket as security. Several towers of chips are pushed in front of him. 

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you around before,” Eames says, turning to face him. He is playing with a poker chip, sending it skittering over his knuckles with practised ease. Up close he smells of strong, expensive cologne and, just a hint beneath it, etching acid and printer’s inks. Not as familiar to his nose as oils or acrylics, but Mozzie has dabbled in the field enough in the past that he knows the scents well enough. He smiles.

“I’m new in town,” he says. “Nick Halden. Pleasure to meet you.” He holds out a hand, and Eames takes it with a strong grip. 

“Eames. I should warn you now,” the forger says, “I’m going to take all your money.” Neal is surprised into a laugh, and Eames grins at him, open and seemingly genuine. Who can tell though? That’s what this game is all about; making acquaintances, getting to know his style. Poker can tell you a lot about someone.

“I think you might have a tougher time of that than you think.”

“Oh really?” Eames raises his eyebrows, keeping an eye on the dealer as their cards are put down in front of them. “When I’ve made you poor and destitute don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Please,” Neal says, checking his hand. “My sentiment is the same.”

\----

They play the game. Half an hour later, both Eames and Neal have each amassed quite a number of chips, and nearly everyone else at the table has bowed out. Eames is looking at him with just a hint of impressed respect, and Neal can’t help but return it. The man is charming, can bluff like a champion, and seems to have no obvious tell. Or he does, but he keeps changing them. First it was scratching his neck, then toying with one of his chips, and now it seems to be a look at the floor accompanied by rapid blinking. It’s not even that subtle, but he times the switches well. More than one of the other players has been caught out. 

“What do you do for a living, Mr Eames?” he asks casually, as he tosses some of his chips into the middle of the table. 

“Oh, I do a lot of things,” Eames says, smile a little sharp. “But at the moment I deal in...” he pauses, relishing the words, “moving delicate items. Solving a few little problems of supply and demand.”

“Oh really,” Neal says. “That’s rather interesting, because I happen to be in the business of fulfilling demand too. I suppose you could say I’m a useful middleman.” 

“What a coincidence.” There’s a slight wariness in his eyes now, but Neal’s not worried. He is not exactly your typical Fed, and he’s not wearing an obvious wire, or his anklet, or anything that will mark him out as anything other than an interested party. Except the wristwatch, but it’s not exactly obvious. 

“I know, New York is a small place, isn’t it. Call.” He nods at the cards. Eames seems to relax a little, which is good. Reacting to the vibes Neal is trying so hard to put out; _I am not a threat_. He checks his cards one more time, the shrugs.

“Fold. It seems today is your lucky day Mr Halden.” 

Neal smiles. “Maybe it is. After all, it isn’t every day you run into the man who pulled such an impressive heist at the Metropolitan Museum.”

“You shouldn’t listen to rumours, Mr Halden,” Eames says without missing a beat. “You have the wrong guy.”

“My sources are generally pretty reliable.”

Eames sighs. “Listen, even if we say, purely hypothetically, that I know what you’re talking about, I’m gonna have to cut you off there. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer of a fence, but I’m not looking to move anything right now,” he says. 

“That’s fine.” He wasn’t exactly expecting him to take the bait right here and now. No thief as careful as Eames would move without checking up on the legitimacy of a contact they have only just met. Neal reaches into his inside pocket for one of his mocked-up cards and slides it across the table to the forger. “But if you are any time in the future, give me a call.”

Eames smiles. “I might just take you up on that.” He will, Neal is going to make sure of it. 

\----

It’s a matter of trust, okay. He knows Neal, and no matter what he claims, scout’s honour, hand on heart, there is no way he isn’t trying to find Kate somehow. His little friend Haversham is obviously neck deep in it as well, but he won’t talk. It Peter wants to know what is _really_ going on in Neal’s head, he’s going to have to take a look inside. 

Yes, literally. 

When he first met Elizabeth, he also met her best friend, a woman she had known since college and sharing a room, a striking French woman named Mallory, though everyone called her Mal. She was beautiful, seductive, alluring... the perfect stereotype of the femme fatale, Peter had thought as they were introduced. But none of that was, in fact, his type. He liked clever, smart people, and while Mal certainly did have those things, they were a little distant somehow, as though seen through a veil. If they ever had dated, it would have been exceptional... for a while. And then things would have imploded, gone down in flames; a complete train wreck. So instead he dated El, which was exceptional in another way, and they just ended up slotting together like the pieces of a puzzle. He honestly couldn’t say he had any regrets.

Some years later Mallory met Dominic Cobb and they fell in love. Of course El was invited to their wedding, and Peter was introduced to this young ambitious visionary who built castles in the air with his words, and could persuade you of nearly anything if he had a mind too. Mal and Dom were a perfect match, and it was pretty obvious how star-struck they were with each other. 

For more years after that Peter worked his way up through the food chain at the FBI, while Elizabeth started to get her own fledgling business of the ground. They saw Mal and Dom from time to time, met the kids after they were born. Dominic had always been cagey about what he did for a living. He claimed to be an architect of some kind, but with the kind of secretive smile Peter was learning to recognise among suspects who knew more than they were letting on. Though what he suspected Dom of he didn’t know. But there was something not quite right about his story. 

It was probably a sign that his work was creeping into his private life a bit too much, when he started analysing what came out of his friends’ mouths like they were suspects in a case, but given that this time it turned out Dom had been keeping some pretty big secrets under wrap, he felt totally justified. In fact, he probably would never have found out about it all if the people in charge hadn’t decided it might be a good idea to make use of the new training technology the CIA and the Pentagon had been playing around with. 

It wasn’t a good idea. It was still too new, and FBI officers, unlike soldiers, didn’t generally have to worry about being shot in the line of duty. Particularly not if you worked in white collar crime. Their job was about analysing real world evidence, reading people and situations, and in dream-space, everything was far too subjective to be useful. The experiment didn’t last long. However, what was of more interest to Peter was the man they sent along to teach them how to use the PASIV device. Dominic Cobb.

He confronted him about it on that first day. Peter was not a fan of being lied too, even if – as in this case – it was classified a matter of national security. Still, once Dom had told him that, he at least had a reason, and an understandable one. He agreed it would be for the best if they pretended not to know one another, and he would keep Dom’s secret. 

A couple of months after that, Mal jumped off a building. 

After the police charged him with murder, Dominic posted bail and immediately ran, leaving DC and coming straight to Peter. A distraught man sobbing on his front step was the first he or Elizabeth knew about it. He wouldn’t pretend to understand the ins and outs of what Dom said had happened in the dream, but he knew one thing for sure, and that was that he would never in a million years have done anything to hurt Mal. Just like he would never hurt El. It was a simple as that. 

Of course this couldn’t be explained to the authorities, because the PASIV was still a military secret, and apparently the CIA didn’t care enough about one of their own to risk any exposure of it to the outside world. Dom was on his own. Of course Peter felt duty bound to help him get out of the country any way he could.

The upshot of all this is, Dom owes him a favour. A pretty big one. And it’s time to call it in.

\----

Dom Cobb arrives in New York by sea, a traveller returning home rather than an immigrant looking for a new life. Peter is well aware that getting him past customs on false papers is not exactly an authorised use of FBI resources, but he can square it under his conscious as necessary for the health and well-being of his consultant, as well as the prevention of some future return to crime. Getting a look inside Neal’s head will be good for everyone, in the long run. 

Some people would say this is evidence of a pathological need for control. Peter would reply, obviously they haven’t met Neal Caffrey. 

\----

“Peter,” Dom says, putting the PASIV case down on the table and leaning over to shake his hand. “It’s good to see you again. I just wish it could have been in better circumstances.” He is accompanied by a thin man who wears suits the way Neal does, like they’re simply an extension of his own skin. He has slicked-back brown hair, a very composed, professional expression, and seems to be watching the world at one remove through eyes that don’t miss a thing. He seems a little up-tight, but if Dom is working with him, he must be a decent guy, not to mention good at his job. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” Peter says, as they get settled round the table. “But there’s no way to prove your innocence.”

“Not unless some of the people I used to work for defend me, I know,” Cobb says, leaning forward in his seat, his hands folded on the table in front of him. “It’s okay. You’ve done a lot for me, and I appreciate it. This favour is the least I can do.” He pauses and gestures to his associate. “This is Arthur, my point-man and sometimes-architect.”

Arthur leans forwards to exchange a firm, slightly perfunctory handshake with Peter. “Pleased to meet you,” he says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I can’t say the same about you,” Peter says, a little wary. But Dom wouldn’t have brought this guy with him if he wasn’t trustworthy. Still, it’s a pretty big thing to let someone he doesn’t know go rooting around in Neal’s head. If he wasn't so sure Caffrey was going to try something stupid and likely to get him locked up again, he wouldn’t even be considering this. But Neal is too good at keeping secrets. He doesn’t have many options in the timeframe they’re talking here.

“Let me assure you Agent Burke, I am very good at what I do,” Arthur says, quiet and self-assured. “Your friend won’t even know we’ve been in.”

He had better not, Peter doesn’t say. He clears his throat, a little unsure how to begin. He’s only ever been familiar with the training uses of dreams, and he never really bothered with the technical stuff. Extraction is something quite different, and he doesn’t know what they will need to know. Cobb comes to his rescue.

“The procedure is pretty simple,” he says, leaning forward in his chair and folding his hands together on the tabletop as he speaks. “We use the PASIV device to enter Mr Caffrey’s dreams, creating an environment which will focus his mind on his secrets. Then we can either attempt to get this secret out of his projections, or more likely, we find his safe or similar hiding place, break in to it, and discover the information you need. Sometimes we need to use more than one level, depending on how alert or convoluted the subject’s subconscious is. But the technique is very safe, I assure you, and the subject almost never realises that his dreams have been tampered with.”

“Well, I can guarantee that Neal will have a... ‘convoluted’ subconscious, as you put it. And I should know, I chased him for long enough. I know the guy.”

Arthur nods. “We’ll need to talk to you about him in some detail,” he says. “It’s important to have a lot of detail so that we can tailor our dream-scape appropriately.”

“Anything you need,” Peter promises. “I’ve set you up in a hotel a couple of blocks from here. Whatever supplies you need, I’ll get them for you.”

“We’ll get this for you, Peter,” Dom says firmly as the three of them get to their feet. “I know this is very important to you.” 

Peter sees them off with a copy of the FBI’s file on Neal Caffrey, all they know about him to date, which is as complete a picture as Peter thinks they will ever get without Neal letting them in on a few of his most deeply concealed secrets. Not the kind of secrets he cares about though. Kate is the issue here, and he has faith in Dominic to know what he’s doing. 

They had better get it right the first time around. Extraction doesn’t sound like the kind of game that gives out second chances. 

\----

The FBI keep their surveillance on Eames while Neal waits for the call. Nick Halden has been a lot of people in the past, and one of them is an elusive and well-regarded New York fence. Before Supermax, he would take the time to keep up the persona every time he was in town, and since then Moz had spread the word he was on retreat in South America. Now after four years he has returned, ready to re-establish his reputation. It will be more than enough to pass muster when Eames checks to make sure he’s legit. 

It is longer than Neal and Peter were hoping before they finally get a call from their target. The Met are getting a little antsy about getting their paintings back. Neal suggested – half flippant and half serious – that they just show the forgeries until then, as hardly anyone would be able to tell the difference, but Peter had given him one of those looks and he’d shut up. 

Neal dresses to impress for the meet they set up. Not that he ever likes to look less than impeccably tailored, but there’s something about this con man that makes him want to try a little harder than usual. Maybe because he’s smart, maybe it’s something calling him back to his less legal days, maybe he just thinks the guy is kind of hot. He doesn’t know. 

Eames has arranged for them to meet outside an Italian-style coffee bar in one of the more expensive parts of the city. Neal is expecting him to usher him inside to talk over a couple of expressos, but instead after a quick and friendly greeting the forger takes him up to the apartment on the top floor of the building

The inside of Eames’ pad is minimalist in an expensive sort of way, high-ceilinged rooms with white walls, polished hardwood floors, red and white leather furniture, and hanging casually on the walls, ten original Escher prints, courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Neal drapes his suit jacket over the back of the couch, looking around. He can’t deny he’s impressed. This place would not have come cheap, and the real estate market doesn’t generally work that fast in New York. Eames had to have owned this place before now. This isn’t his first time in the city. 

“You like it?” Eames says, coming back through from the kitchen – black marble and stainless steel – with a couple of beers, handing one over. 

“I like _these_ ,” Neal replies, walking over to one of the Eschers for a closer look.

“They aren’t really my thing,” Eames says, making Neal’s eyebrows go up in surprise. “I actually got them for a friend of mine.”

“Oh,” Neal says with a grin. “I hope she appreciates it. She must be a big fan of his work.”

“He is.” He takes a seat in the chair facing Neal and puts his feet up on the coffee table. “So you see why I’m going to have to turn down your offer to fence them for me.”

Huh, Neal thinks. That was kind of unexpected. Not the boyfriend thing; he likes to think he’s a better judge of when people are eyeing his ass appreciatively, but about how serious it apparently is. You don’t steal ten Eschers for just anyone, and Eames seems like too much of a playboy to be making extravagantly romantic gestures like this. It certainly puts paid to using sex as a tool if Nick Halden’s usual line of business falls through. 

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate the gesture,” he says, putting his drink down on one of the side tables next to a small reproduction of _Eros and Psyche_. “But I guess I have to ask why you invited me here if it wasn’t for business.”

Eames smiles. “Now, I didn’t say we couldn’t do _any_ business,” he says. “I’ve got a few other things that might interest your buyers.”

“Oh?” Neal asks. “You’ve got me curious now.”

“Here.” Eames beckons him through to a room he has set up as an artist’s studio, the walls covered in sketches, pastels, watercolours, oils and other works in progress. 

\-----

_Arthur and Cobb discuss the plans for extracting from Neal._

“This is clearly a man who knows a lot about secrets,” Arthur says once he has finished looking through the files the FBI agent gave them. He doesn’t find it very surprising that Dom is friends with someone in the FBI – he was gainfully employed by the government once upon a time – but he does find it a little odd that this man would go to such lengths just to find out what is inside the head of a con man. “The question is finding the ones we want.”

“The mechanism of becoming someone else for the purposes of a con in the real world has a lot in common with forgery in the dream world,” Cobb says, standing by the whiteboard and tapping the pen against his palm. “It’s a pity we don’t know where Eames is. He would have been useful for this job.”

Arthur resists the urge to shift uncomfortably in his chair. It has been months since they last worked with that particular infuriating Englishman, and he has no intention of letting Eames get to him so long after the fact. “Two layers,” he says instead, getting the conversation back on track. “At least. Somewhere that will evoke strong memories of this woman, and a scenario that will prompt him to worry about her safety. I thought this prison-break of his might have potential.”

“I’m not sure building from a pre-existing scenario would work...” Dom says doubtfully. Arthur shakes his head. 

“Only repeat the rough outlines – prison separates him from Kate. She is in danger and he has to give up his secrets to an interrogator to keep her safe. That will fix his mind on her and bring to the front whatever he has to hide that he is most afraid of us finding out. Then we go into the level beneath, 

\-----

_Peter brings Neal to his house while El is away for the procedure. Drugged wine._

\-----

The first level of the dream goes as planned. Dom and Arthur find themselves within the grey walls of a prison dressed in unremarkable FBI get-up. There’s nothing like a cage to set a man on edge, and thinking about the things that are most precious to him. Arthur is the architect for this level. Dom hasn’t had any problems with Mal’s shade lately, but he doesn’t want any unexpected obstacles cropping up this early in the mission. The next level will be a bit riskier, but he won’t be there long, he thinks he can take the chance in building it himself. 

Neal is currently cooped up in an interrogations room, one way glass, small and claustrophobic, 

 

\-----

_The second level. Cobb sees Eames wandering about before projection!Peter kills him and they all wake up._

_Sequel: Eames is doing poker chip forgeries in LA, and since they ran into one another before, Neal and Peter are called out to head the investigation, as no one else has ever come as close to catching him. Large LA casino has been receiving large numbers of forged poker chips from a variety of otherwise innocent clients. Traced back to Eames, who gambles them away, winning good chips back in return and cashing them in. However while he still plays, the chips no longer appear to be forged. Stolen equipment, so he must be forging identical to real chips._

Peter stretches his arm out, and theatrically drops a couple of poker chips onto the table. Neal snaps the folder shut and picks one up. 

“Seriously?” he says. “Forging poker chips? People still do that?” 

Peter shrugs. “Apparently. And I have to say, I’m impressed he hasn’t been caught yet. We got a call last night from head of Security at the {x} Casino.” He pulls out another folder, and shoves a handful of CCTV stills over to Neal. “Our old friend has been smuggling thousands of dollars of fake chips into the Poker Room every night for the past two weeks, and playing the tables with them and I don’t think I need to tell you that he’s a _pro_ at poker. He’ll loose about half of them at first, then end up winning the whole hand. And he keeps doing this with his fakes until finally those are all gone, spread out into the crowd, and all he has left are bona-fide casino chips, which he can go and cash in.” Peter shakes him head, a little incredulous. 

Neal leans forwards, examining the man in the photographs. Eames is good looking, in a rough kind of way but it is an absolute crime what he’s doing pairing that suit – is that _tweed_ – with, oh god, a garish tie and what looks like a paisley waistcoat. He’s sure he wasn’t _this_ bad at dressing himself the last time they met, though quite what could have possessed him is beyond Neal. It is the very least he can do to put him behind bars just for that crime against fashion. “So Security have figured out what he’s doing now, so can’t they just grab him themselves next time he comes in?” 

Peter shakes his head. “Now _that_ is where this gets complicated. He’s not hitting the [..] any more.”

“He’s disappeared again?”

_And that's all I got on this one folks._


	3. Rock N Rolla Powers AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally just snippets for this one.

**Powers for each character**  
Johnny: Illusions  
One Two: Invulnerability  
Handsome Bob: ~ Seduction~  
Mumbles: Supernatural calm  
Archy: Super strength  
Lenny: Mind Control  
Pete: Miniature fire-starter  
Uri: Immortality (Dorian Grey style)  
Accountant woman: Midas touch

\----

“So if you’ve got the Midas touch, how is it you needed us to steal all this cash for you?”

She blows out an elegant stream of cigarette smoke that turns into glittering dust in the air. “I can’t want to do things for the thrill of it?”

One Two considers this. “I could almost believe it of you, but somehow I don’t think that’s it.”

She frowns, a crease of skin that looks foreign on her usually serene face. “It’s fool’s gold, if you must know. It’s not worth a thing.”

\----

Ever since he was young, Bob has been Handsome Bob, Silver-Tongued Bob, Siren Bob. The older kids at school would back off when he asked them too, and the gangs that came recruiting never pressed too hard. At first it was only when he was afraid or angry, but by the time his voice began to break, control came with it. And with all those hormones rushing around, it seemed kind of obvious what he should be doing with it. 

It wasn’t the power to make people do things, not exactly. When he spoke, he made people _like_ him. They wanted to do what he said, because hey, Bob’s a cool guy, he makes sense. And with like, it was easy to make it something more. 

Afterwards it was like they were both coming out of a trance, and he saw the shock and revulsion and _fear_ on Jamie’s face, felt him push him away and stumble out the door, and knew he had done something _wrong_. 

\----

Sparks fly from his fingertips, and creeping vines curl over the walls. Lights bloom overhead like the footage of the aurora borealis in the nature documentary they had to watch in class last week. The videos are about the only good thing about school. The rest of it is shit, and he can’t wait until he can get the hell out of there. Johnny doesn’t know what he wants to do with his life yet, except that it won’t involve Lenny. It shouldn’t be much to ask. Explosions bloom in the air around him to the rhythm of the drums blaring out of the speakers. 

He is expecting it when Uncle Lenny comes bursting through the door, and he conjures the image of a massive snake to slither around his feet. He used to be able to make the old bastard flinch, but it has kind of lost the shock value by now. Anyway, they ‘ain’t real, and they can’t hurt him, much as he’d like them too. Lenny scowls. 

“What have I told you about playing this racket?”


	4. MDT Group Therapy, to the Tune of Guns and TNT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be about the vague similarities between Jack/Narrator and Two-Face, with their alternate personalities, but it never really got that far.

After the buildings came down, and I had made up with Marla and managed to convince her – God knows how – that I wasn’t the ringleader of a crazy gang of criminals, she hot-wired a car and drove me to the hospital. I didn’t have insurance, but I hadn’t needed it since the early days of Fight Club. The doc who stitched up my cheek had a split lip and kept breaking out in a stupid grin whenever he looked at me. I wanted to tell him to cut it out, but the adrenaline was starting to wear off and the pain was making its way through to my lizard brain. It hurt. It hurt a lot. 

With Tyler gone, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to go back to the house on Paper Street, and the police were looking for me now that I had gone and blabbed my big mouth and nearly got my balls cut off, so I had to skip town as well. Marla didn’t want to come. Marla was fine with crazy, she had a thing for crazy, but apparently my kind of crazy was a little too much for her. Maybe she was only a fan of self-destruction, not destruction in general. Maybe it was a control thing. Maybe she just didn’t want to pack up and leave her shitty apartment with five months still on the lease. I don’t know. I got on a bus and left. 

The bus dropped me off in Gotham. It’s a shit-hole of a city on the east coast, but the nice thing is that everyone here is just as crazy as me. I mean, Tyler might have been all for smashing The Man and blowing shit up and making soap from human fat, but he, or I guess I should say we, or maybe even I, never put on a costume to do it. Ski masks don’t count. I found a crappy room in the neighbourhood they call the Narrows, which is a shit hole within a shit hole that’s only slightly better than Paper Street and then I got a job in a call centre. I know, right. After all that Tyler had done, after all that I had done, that’s what I do? Tyler would call it back-sliding and wallop me round the back of the head, but he’s dead, so he can shut the fuck up. 

Well, I think he’s dead. Shooting myself in the head really ought to be enough to get rid of a psychic bully, and if I need the reminder, all I need to do is look in a mirror. A bullet ripping through your cheek doesn’t make for a pretty sight. I am Jack’s disfiguring scars. And yet sometimes I think I see flashes of him. My insomnia is back, not as bad, but still keeping me up until three or four in the morning. I go for long walks through dark streets. The Narrows is not too keen on street lights, but after Fight Club, I’m not afraid. Not that I have anything worth stealing anyway. My crap job pays for the rent and a diet of noodles and that’s about it. No more Ikea catalogues, yin-yang tables, exercise bikes. Yes Tyler, this _is_ rock bottom, but I still don’t see the punchline. It feels like I’m waiting. Waiting for him, I suppose. 

I hate the weekends because I have nothing to do. I get up, I eat, I go to the store and buy packets of noodles and shit that’s on sale. I am a zombie, shuffling around in a ripped dirty shirt and tracksuit pants. Gotham never gets any sunshine. Ever. The clouds are permanent, storm grey, the colour of dirty dishwater. I walk back to my apartment in a mindless daze, open the door, and walk past the open door of my bedroom to the kitchen. 

I walk back. 

Tyler Durden is lying on my bed, lips wrapped round a cherry-red sucker, wearing boxers and that familiar dressing gown stained with God knows what. I am Jack’s strong sense of the inevitable. He gives me a little wave and springs to his feet, and I want to punch the smug smirk off his face. 

“Did you miss me?” he asks. Yes, I think, but I don’t say it. I don’t say anything. I don’t really believe that he will go away if I pretend he isn’t here, but I’m not quite ready to face up to the reality of it yet. Reality. Tyler isn’t real. I’m Tyler, _we_ are Tyler. Funny how knowing that doesn’t change a thing. When he comes up behind me while I’m putting boxes away in the cupboard and pokes me hard between the shoulder-blades, he feels as much like flesh and blood and bone as I do. 

“Hey, I said, did you miss me?”

I turn around and grab his hand before he can poke me again. My skin tingles and contracts like ants are walking all over me. I’m starting to wake up again, starting to feel alive, not like some dead thing made out of cotton wool and lead. My heartbeat sounds loud in my ears.

“What do you want?” I ask. 

“What you should really be asking yourself is, what do _you_ want,” he says. “That’s why I’m here, after all. That’s why you conjured me up from the dark recesses of your animal mind. I am your Id, and I say,” and here he scowls and he pulls me forwards by the neck of my T-shirt until our noses are nearly touching, “what the ever loving fuck are you doing with your life?”

After that, things become inevitable. Some things have changed, but at base, all I really got out of that night the buildings blew were scars and the memory of the taste of gunpowder. Tyler moves into my apartment and we settle in to the kind of routine we had at the start of all this, before Fight Club. Some nights he beats me up – I’m out of practice – but he doesn’t seem to be trying to restart Project Mayhem. But what would I know? He is pretty good at keeping secrets from me. But I don’t really care. The bruises, the tangy blood in my mouth, it all makes me feel real again. 

And then we end up fucking. 

Well. It’s a little bit more complicated than that. Tyler has never really understood the concept of modesty, and with his body I can’t exactly blame him. Seeing as we are the same person, and I was finally aware of that, I guess he decided he didn’t need to bother anymore with things like a towel when he came out of the shower, or wearing anything in bed. I saw more of his cock in that first week than I ever had in the six months at Paper Street, and let me tell you, his is a monster. I guess that makes sense. What man wouldn’t imagine himself with a twelve inch cock?

It started when he came into my room one night when I was lying flat on my back staring at the mildew on the ceiling and trying to work out if I was imagining the scratching noises in the wall behind the headboard, and if there was any point in worrying about rats and roaches in a place like this. I don’t recall whether he opened the door and walked in or if he was suddenly just sitting on the mattress next to me. I don’t suppose it matters. I sat up as soon as I noticed him. His blonde hair was getting long, he was smoking, and he was naked. 

I looked at him and blinked and tried to work out how to ask what the fuck he was doing there. 

“How long has it been since you got some action that wasn’t your hand?” Tyler asked. “And Marla don’t count. Marla was all me.”

I could have punched him in his smug face. He obviously took my silence to mean it had been a long dry spell, and he was right. And why would Marla have me when Tyler was right there? I hadn’t even liked Marla that way, she was a cancer and she was diseased, except that the part of me that was Tyler clearly had. No-one ever said living with another personality was simple. But fuck him, and fuck her. 

“Fuck you,” I said. Tyler grinned. I tried not to look at his cock. 

“Well you only had to ask,” he said, and then his hand was on my prick. 

I am embarrassed at how fast I got hard. It was crazy, because this was basically just masturbation, but it certainly didn’t feel like masturbation. Tyler felt as real as anything. He tossed his cigarette butt on the floor and put his hand around my neck while he kissed me. He didn’t have to squeeze much to cut off my air – I was hardly breathing as it was I was so shocked. He bit my lip hard enough to draw blood.

When I came I saw stars.


End file.
